Mockingbird
by Roxy Rosee
Summary: AU- A teenage Daryl is jumped by a band of Neo-Nazi thugs because his big brother owes them a whole lot of money. After they've beaten him bloody, one of the men offers to guard Daryl for the remainder of the night. Hurting and exhausted, can Daryl let himself believe that this man really wants to help him?


_A/N: Prompt fill for the lovely sweetkiwi604, jumping off of the quote below (To Kill a Mockingbird). Enjoy x_

**"Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to _kill_ a mockingbird."**

There was a sick popping sound when the largest man's fist made contact with Daryl's gut, as if someone had blown a plastic bag full, then smashed it between two heavy planks. Daryl, on the other hand, refused to make any sound beyond a handful of muffled grunts as the hits kept coming.

"Kid's got some spine, I'll give him that," one of the skinheads said in a snarky tone.

"Takes a beatin' better than you, Louie," another one replied snidely. Louie grabbed the smaller man by the scruff of his neck, whatever amusement he was displaying vaporizing in an instant, and Daryl couldn't help but feel grateful.

"Wanna say that again, Jimmy?" Louie growled, and the obvious beta-dog immediately backed down.

"I was just fuckin' around," he said quickly, before his eyes fell back on Daryl, "Now let's have another go at him."

"No," Louie immediately decreed, leaving no room for argument. "Kid's about to pass out as it is. Let's take the pictures and be done with it."

Daryl's eyes were closed, clenched shut the way they had been through most of this hell. He'd been having trouble counting how many guys had made their way into this room- a meat locker, maybe- to use him as a punching bag. Definitely more than five, but beyond that, the pain had besieged his ability to concentrate.

From what he'd gathered so far, this particular gang of Neo-Nazis had grabbed him on a whim. Merle owed them money, a whole lot of it, and they'd figured Daryl had to be his second in command. It wouldn't make much sense for a grown-ass criminal like Merle to be carting around a sixteen-year-old unless he was putting him to good use, even if that teenager was his younger brother. But the truth was, Merle had kept Daryl as isolated from his drug shit as possible. And aside from keeping the truck running while Merle dealt with a competitor or two, every now and again, Daryl had almost no knowledge of where the money came from, or where the drugs went.

It had been about an hour into the beating before Daryl managed to get_ that _point across. And by that time, they'd already beaten him bloody, and couldn't exactly send him on his way and hope for no retaliation. No, it was then that they decided to keep him as collateral.

With his shirt ripped open and his hands cuffed over his head, Daryl almost wished that he_did_ know where the money was. That way, it would be a lot more satisfying to have held out this long. They'd kept his face "pretty," at least that's how they'd put it at the time, and it was really his chest and middle that had taken the brunt of the damage. He figured a good three or four of his ribs must be broken by now. And Daryl didn't much want to look down, or open his eyes at all, but he knew his torso was already a sickening array of purples and reds.

"Eyes open, kid," came the gruff demand, before he was slapped hard. And he did so obediently, supposing that whatever came after couldn't be much worse than what had come before. "That's it. Flash them baby blues for your big brother."

Successive bright lights went off in his face, and Daryl squinted through it. Then Louie shoved the phone back into his pocket and eyed the teen in consideration.

Not a half minute later, Louie's phone went off. And when Daryl heard Merle's furious holler even from a distance, he couldn't help but crack a small smile. His big brother _did_care, at least enough to be reasonably pissed that his flesh and blood had been taken hostage. Merle's responses were garbled, but Daryl could hear Louie just fine.

"Yeah, he told us he don't know where the money's at. But see, that don't really matter much now. You pay us, or we start takin' off body parts, Merle. You know the drill…We'll do whatever the fuck we want with him. And you ain't got any say in the matter, unless we see that money…Tomorrow morning. 8am by the O'Neil warehouse…thattaboy, knew you'd come around."

Louie snapped his phone shut and shot Daryl a leering grin.

"Now see, that wasn't so hard," he crooned. "All's ya gotta do is hang out 'til morning, and big brother's gonna come negotiate your freedom."

Daryl's eyes widened a little at that, not out of surprise that Merle would come for him, but out of alarm at the thought of being left _hanging_ all night. It had been hours of this already, and he'd pretty much lost of the feeling in his hands. He wasn't sure how long he could go on, and still come out of this night reasonably healthy. Not that any of this was healthy to begin with.

"Can't leave 'em like that," came a voice from the corner, and Daryl's eyes darted in the direction of the distinct, rumbling drawl. He didn't recognize the man, and he didn't look too much like his _brothers_, considering his hair was jet black and long, and his eyes were so deep an amber that from the distance, they looked like pupil-less pools.

"And why not?" Louie carped, "Looks mighty comfortable from where I'm standin'."

"Way I see it, this deal's contingent on us delivering the kid without any permanent damage. But I suppose we could just leave him up there, if the money ain't all that important to you…"

"Fuck that," Louie spat, and then literally spat to the side in frustration, "But who the fuck's gonna volunteer to guard him all night? I know _I_ ain't doin' it."

"I don't mind," the dark-haired boy replied nonchalantly, but Daryl thought there might be something more there, "I usually work the night shift anyways. This ain't much different. The rest of y'all can go hit the hay."

"Fine," Louie ground out, and vaulted a key in the dark-haired boy's direction, which he caught seamlessly. He stormed out of the room, with his lackeys hot on his tail, and Daryl's new captor- savior, maybe- walked slowly over to him.

Daryl was immediately tense, eyes following the man's movements like a tracking beam. He had a good ten years on Daryl, at least, and a hell of a lot more muscle. In fact, the man was bigger than the biggest of the guys that had worked him over for the last six hours, and he had to wonder why this man had hung back that whole time, and apparently just watched.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, kid," the man said when he got close enough to catch Daryl's eye. "Now I figure you ain't up to doin' much fighting anyways, but I gotta warn you, if you do somethin' stupid I ain't gonna go teary-eyed 'bout puttin' you down. But you're _not_ gonna do anything stupid. 'Cuz all I'm gonna do is un-cuff you, and get you cleaned up. Alright?"

It was too good to be true. Daryl couldn't believe this asshole, couldn't turn his back to any of them. But the funny thing about pain is that it makes you a hell of a lot more trusting. Anything to make it stop, for the most part. Daryl gave the man his smallest nod. He heard the click of metal on metal. And the relief of finally being able to lower his arms was immediately overshadowed by the realization that no, he really didn't have the strength to fight back. He didn't even have the strength to _stand_.

Daryl was falling towards the floor before he'd even registered his descent, but he was stopped by a heavy weight under his armpit with an accompanying grunt. The man threw Daryl's arm around his shoulders and lifted the boy effortlessly.

"Where…where we…" Daryl rasped out in sudden alarm.

"Just back to my room, alright? Safer there. You can rest up," the boy said. They travelled quietly down a dark hallway and into a good-sized, relatively tidy bedroom. The man kicked the door shut behind them and deposited Daryl on the bed. He had both of the teen's hands behind his back and cuffed again before the younger Dixon could so much as react.

Daryl immediately jerked at his restraints in panic.

"Hey, it's better for both of us," the man tried to soothe, "I ain't lookin' to hurt you, I promise. But if someone comes in here and they see you without cuffs on, we're both gonna get in trouble." He reached under his bed and pulled out a first aid kit. "I'm Ryan, by the way."

"Daryl," the younger Dixon offered after a moment's pause.

"Yeah, I know," Ryan replied with a half-hearted laugh. "You thirsty?"

Only hesitating a moment, Daryl nodded slowly, and Ryan plucked a glass off the bedside table and filled it up in the bathroom. When he came back, he sat down gingerly on the bed beside Daryl and held the glass to the younger boy's lips. A hand slid gently up his neck to guide him, and Daryl couldn't help but flinch noticeably. But instead of pulling away, Ryan rubbed softly at the apex where his neck met his shoulders, eventually relaxing the boy into submission. He was pleasantly surprised when Daryl even managed to close his eyes as he drank.

"That's good," Ryan told him in a low voice, "That's better, now."

When Daryl had drunk his full, Ryan set the cup to the side and began to survey the teen's damaged body. He grazed his fingers over the scarred planes of his chest, putting so little pressure that the boy couldn't have felt it, but Daryl still jolted, then hissed from the sudden burst of pain.

"Hey, just calm down, now. No sense in hurting yourself worse. What is it?" Ryan murmured, seeming so genuinely worried that Daryl squirmed under his gaze.

"Just leave me alone. I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're really not kid," Ryan scoffed before moving in again, this time with antiseptic wipes in hand. Daryl tried to flinch out of his reach, and this time Ryan stopped. "For fuck's sake. You _know_ I ain't lookin' to hurt you any worse. You gonna sit still or what?"

Ryan was looking him dead in the eye, but Daryl refused to meet his gaze.

"What's wrong?" Ryan pressed, as if being kidnapped and beaten for hours by a band of lunatics wasn't enough.

It took him a good minute to muster up the voice to answer. "Don't like bein' touched."

"Why?" Ryan asked. It occurred to Daryl all at once that while _why_ was probably the most obvious of responses, he'd never gotten it before. Usually, if he told people he didn't like to be touched, they immediately dropped the subject, dropped _him._ Daryl glared down at the floor and bit at his lip.

"Don't matter," Daryl muttered, "Just leave it alone. M'fine."

Ryan frowned and tried to move towards him again. This time, Daryl jerked away so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. The only thing to save him, yet again, was Ryan's adept hands clenched around his biceps and eyeing him strangely.

"You really don't trust me, huh," Ryan said after a beat, sounding almost disappointed.

"Well the guys you hang 'round with ain't exactly friendly," Daryl pointed out.

"Maybe I'm not like them."

"If you weren't like them, you wouldn't be here."

"Or maybe I'm here for pretty much the same reason you are."

"Dumbass brother? Doubt it," Daryl immediately scoffed.

"Dumbass _step-_brother," Ryan amended, "But yeah, pretty much the same deal. You met him, actually. Louie."

Daryl's mouth fell open. "You kiddin' me? Y'all don't look a thing alike."

"Well neither do you and Merle," Ryan pointed out, "It's a good thing, too. You're a hell of a lot better looking."

Crimson spread wildly over Daryl's face, and he caught Ryan grinning smugly. "Ain't no excuse," Daryl abruptly defended, "You could leave whenever you want."

"Well I ain't the one whose tied up, so I suppose that's true. But we both know I can't leave my blood any more than you could leave yours. Even if he's getting you into trouble like this. So why don't we just agree that we're both fucked where we're at, yeah?"

Daryl gave a little huff, but grunted his acknowledgement. He wasn't exactly in a position to argue at the moment.

"Look," Ryan began softly, "Just lemme get the blood off. Can't do much about those broken ribs, except rest 'em up. But I've got some painkillers at least, should hold you over 'til tomorrow."

At long last, Daryl relented. "Fine," he sighed, and had to hold his body back from jumping away when Ryan got back to work at cleaning off his battered torso. The older boy took his time about it, and was surprisingly gentle. His eyes darted back and forth between his task and Daryl's face, determined not to set the beaten-down kid off, or frighten him any further. Dixon might have been unusually adept at hiding his emotions, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to see the boy was scared.

Ryan found a bottle of oxy hidden in the back of the cabinet, and held two pills in the palm of his hand, just under Daryl's mouth. After a moment of hesitation, the boy leaned his head down those few centimeters and carefully lapped the pills right out of his hand. Ryan knew good and well that he hadn't concealed his gasp when Daryl's lips had made contact with his hand. But instead of dwelling on it, he dropped to his knees behind the teen and just outside of his view.

"Gonna work your shoulders over," Ryan told him before reaching out to touch, "I know they must be aching somethin' awful. You just tell me if it's ever too much." And then, as an afterthought. "It alright if I take off your shirt?"

"No," Daryl immediately snapped, trying his best to gain some distance. But Ryan's hand was petting his hair soothingly before Daryl could even process the movement.

"S'alright. Ain't gonna do it, then. Not if you don't want me to," Ryan said lowly. And Daryl wanted to hate the way the older boy was touching him, he really did. But if he was being honest, it felt good to be touched like this. Softly, with soft words to go right along with it and no threats or immediate dangers looming over his head.

_I'm just exhausted,_ Daryl told himself, _too tired to put up a fight. Anything that isn't knuckles cracking another one of my ribs is gonna look good to me right now. Not my fault._

When Daryl had calmed, Ryan's hands moved to his shoulders and he began to slowly knead the muscles. And Daryl didn't trust Ryan, _knew_ that he shouldn't, but it didn't take long at all for his body to betray him.

First, it was the tension. It dissipated like steam off a car on a scorching August day, leaving him pliable in Ryan's hands. His entire body moved in soft waves, relaxed, even when the man behind him began to inch closer, ostensibly to establish a better grip. Then, it was the shivering. With each swipe of his hands, Ryan's fingertips would graze once over Daryl's neck. And the younger boy couldn't help but tremble a bit each time it happened. If Ryan noticed, he never said anything.

Next, it was that reluctant gasp. Daryl hadn't meant to do it, but when Ryan had reached around his body to adjust his shoulder from a new angle, his breath had crested over the crown of Daryl's ear. This time, Ryan did at least make a small sound of approval, humming under his breath. Daryl wondered hopelessly whether the drugs played any hand in how hypersensitive he'd suddenly become.

By the time Daryl was leaning back fully against Ryan, and Ryan against the headboard, the younger Dixon had no clue how it had happened. Neither could he remember at what point Ryan had decided to un-cuff him entirely, leaving his hands free but dormant against the bedspread. Daryl flexed them experimentally, managing not to think too hard about his circumstances.

Ryan's chin was propped above Daryl's shoulder. His breathing was slow and even, hands immobile. The teen had the distinct sense that Ryan was watching him closely.

"Does your brother know?" Daryl mumbled after a long while. There was no need for specifics.

"No, he doesn't. Does yours?"

"Nothin' _to_ know," Daryl murmured.

"You sure about that?" Ryan asked him, but instead of being accusatory, his tone was simply curious. Then, realization struck him. "You've never…"

"Nah. Couldn't…"

"With anyone?"

"Nuh-uh," Daryl eventually grunted in reply. A moment later, he felt one of Ryan's hands migrate to his hip, and gently finger the unmarked skin there.

"You can stop me," Ryan whispered, "You don't have to do anything you don't wanna do."

Ryan's fingertips traced the slither of skin above his waistband, and Daryl's breathing stuttered.

"Dunno what I want. Dunno what you…"

"I wanna take care of you, if you'll let me," Ryan replied, and because the boy in his lap wasn't putting up much of a fuss, and didn't seem the least bit panicked, he moved next to unbutton Daryl's jeans, and slowly unzip the fly. He nearly died when he saw that the teen was going commando. "Need to hear you say it though. Won't do a thing unless you're sure."

Always three hops and a jump ahead of him, Daryl's body seemed to have decided for him. His jeans were already tenting with the outline of his half-hard cock. But it did put him at ease knowing that even though Ryan could see how he was wanting, he hadn't presumed to be allowed to touch. At least, not any farther _south_.

"I just want to touch you," Ryan offered when he sensed the question in Daryl's silence. "Nothing more than that. Wanna make today hurt a little less. You say stop, I'll stop. But you ain't gonna want me to stop, Daryl. I'll make you feel so good."

The younger Dixon released a shuddering breath. "Uh- I- a-alright," he stuttered out, clenching his eyes shut. They immediately snapped open when he felt Ryan's sure fist wrap around his cock and begin to stroke him in a slow, easy way.

"That's it," Ryan said in a voice that was thick like honey, "Just relax for me. Let me do all the work." Without thinking about it, Ryan pressed a lingering kiss to Daryl's temple. Before the boy could tense up, he accompanied the tenderness with a flick of his wrist that had Daryl whimpering audibly.

Ryan's pace remained steady, root to tip, with a swipe of the thumb over the head. But even that was leaving Daryl a wreck, pre-come already pearling at the tip, breaths coming in shaky pants.

"You're a beautiful thing," Ryan murmured in his ear, noting the all-over flush now seeping down Daryl's chest, his blessed-out expression and parted lips.

"I'm …m'not," Daryl argued weakly.

"You _are_," Ryan insisted, nipping at Daryl's ear. "So beautiful like this. Jesus, just look at you."

His tone sounded almost reverent, and Daryl didn't know quite how to handle that, so he rejected it outright.

"_Stop_, m'not—"

"You are, Daryl," Ryan repeated, "You're so good. Deserve so much more than this. But I'll give you everything I can, while I have you."

Ryan reached his free hand down to gently cup Daryl's balls, rolling them in his palm and relishing the boy's startled moan. He began to stroke the teen a little bit firmer, a little bit faster. Another deliberately rough twist of his wrist right at the head and Daryl couldn't help but release a strangled groan.

"_Oh, fuck._"

"Shh," Ryan soothed him, an impossible request at this point, but seeming more like a reassurance than a demand. Daryl's legs had splayed all the way out, draped over Ryan's, and his mouth was tucked into the crook of the older boy's neck. His hips kept canting up to meet Ryan's fist, rising of their own accord, and Ryan could see the way Daryl flinched with the movement, pain mingling embarrassingly with his arousal.

"Just lay back, Daryl," Ryan murmured to him in response, "That's it, just take it. Just let me…Jesus, so good, you're so good." He could see how close the teen was, with the unfamiliarity of being touched like this, and spoken to like he was someone important. Daryl let out a small whimper with each of Ryan's statements, as if they were bringing him off faster and with more force than Ryan's hand.

"_I—fuck, I-" _Daryl bit off in a desperate gasp.

"I know, Daryl. It's alright, I'm gonna give it to you," Ryan promised him.

It was overwhelming. He felt like his brain was crippled its very own brand of whiplash, jumping from fear and pain to whatever _this_ was so abruptly. Some horrible, self-destructive part of him wanted to cry or fight or scream, but it was overshadowed by the desire to come and come _now._ And why shouldn't he, when this was the first time he'd felt good, so fucking good, in longer than he could remember.

One of Daryl's hands flew to Ryan's thigh, clenching down with his fingernails probably so hard that it hurt. The other leapt behind him, and the younger Dixon ignored the sting of his recent wounds to instead grasp Ryan by the back of his neck. And in that moment, he couldn't be bothered by Ryan's very insistent erection digging into the small of his back, and couldn't contemplate the possibility of _tomorrow_, and whether or not he'd survive it.

"I've got you," Ryan whispered into his ear, "I've got you, Daryl. I'm here."

And that was it- game over. Daryl came like it was being punched out of him, with a gasp and a deep groan, striping white all across his chest and Ryan's hand and even the bedspread.

He couldn't breathe after. Daryl was shaking, could feel wetness on his cheeks because he had no idea, not a fucking clue that it could be like that. But Ryan was mumbling words in his ear, gathering him closer, pulling him together and apart all at once.

Finally, Daryl went boneless against him, allowing himself to be held. It was a long while, minutes, or maybe hours, before Ryan slid out from behind him and carefully helped Daryl to lay back.

"You don't—don't want…?" Daryl found himself asking.

"Not tonight," Ryan replied as he lay down on his side, facing him. "Maybe someday…when this is over. We can find each other on the outside. But not tonight. This wasn't about that."

"What was it about?"

"It was about…me takin' care of you. And you letting me," Ryan said after a moment's pause.

"Oh," Daryl mumbled, not terribly sure whether he should be thrilled or offended or something else entirely. He settled for content, but wouldn't go so far as to let himself be hopeful.

"Get some sleep," Ryan mumbled, yawning himself, "You need it."

And if Daryl found himself inching closer to Ryan before finally shutting his eyes, close enough to bask in the warmth radiating from his body, neither of them mentioned it.

TWDTWDTWDTWD

Daryl awoke to the sound of gunfire, and screaming.

His first thought was something along the lines of: _and the other shoe finally drops_.

Daryl had only just managed to get himself sitting up in bed, painfully at that, since the drugs had worn off, when the door burst open. And standing there with a look that was pure fury and a gun cocked and pointed in their direction was Merle. _Merle? _Fuck, yes, it was really him and his big brother had _come for him_, was here to save him, except that Daryl wasn't so sure anymore that he needed to be saved.

Merle's eyes set on the man to Daryl's left, still sitting with the blankets drawn to his waist and completely blindsided. Daryl tried to catch his brother's eye, refocus his attention, but it was no use because he knew as well as anything that he'd seen _that_ look before. Their dad had worn it perpetually, with Merle only trying it on when the circumstances got dire. Rage, a kill instinct that Daryl was reasonably sure he hadn't inherited, and the skills to do so instantly.

"You get the fuck away from my brother," Merle growled.

"No, no, Merle, it's okay," Daryl hurried to spit out, trying to move quickly to intercept him but getting constantly held back by his battered body. "He didn't hurt me, I swear. He didn't do nothin'. Was just tryin' to help me, Merle."

It was obvious enough that Merle was not hearing him. Maybe the pumping of his blood against his ear drums had gotten too loud. And Ryan was doing nothing to defend himself, simply holding Merle's eye, tense body the only indication that he recognized the looming danger at the foot of his bed.

"Merle, please! You don't have to, he didn't _do_ nothin', he didn't hurt me, Merle! Don't, please don't, _Merle_—"

Blood spattered across the side of Daryl's face.

"No. No, no, _no_!"

Daryl was frozen; he couldn't shut his eyes. He wanted to vault himself in Ryan's direction- hold him, comfort him, _something_\- but there was nothing of him left. _No face_. Bile rose to the back of his throat, and all at once he was sobbing.

"NO! He didn't _do_ nothin'…he didn't… he just wanted to help me and, why'd you, fuck,_fuck…he didn't do nothin'…_wasn't like the rest…didn't hurt me…only one that didn't…"

_The only one that ever gave me something without asking for anything in return. The only one that ever bothered to touch me like I was important, like it meant something. The only one that didn't hurt me, even when they had the chance._

Daryl was lost, so crippled by abrupt, profound grief that he couldn't even muster up any embarrassment for blubbering like this in front of his big brother.

"Daryl…_Daryl_!" A sudden pain jerked him out of his haze, and Merle was standing right in front of him, frowning down with a look that seemed both disapproving and panicked. "Jesus, what'd he _do_ to you?" Merle asked incredulously.

"He didn't—he _didn't_, Merle, he—"

"You need to get your shit together. I got men out there waitin' on us, and they ain't gonna take too kindly to findin' out they risked their asses for some wailing infant," Merle spat.

Daryl sucked in a succession of rapid, shaky breaths. "You didn't have to kill him," he rasped hoarsely, finally looking Merle in the eye. "He didn't do nothin' wrong."

"Nothin'…nothin' _wrong…_for fuck's sake Daryl you got any idea who that guy _is_? Him and Louie have killed enough folks to fill up the county prison. Just 'cuz he didn't hit ya, suddenly you got loyalty for that fucker? Christ, Daryl, what'd he _do_ to you…"

"He was _protectin'_ me from them," Daryl tried.

"Yeah, I see how well he fuckin' protected you. That's why you can barely move. C'mon, brother, I know you ain't that stupid. If I hadn't have showed up now, you woulda been dead come tomorrow, and he woulda been the motherfucker who ordered it."

"He wouldn't—he wouldn'ta—"

There were some half-coherent shouts from the rest of the compound, and a heavy blast of gunfire.

Daryl couldn't help but concentrate on the crippled, bloody body in his periphery.

_You didn't do shit to deserve this_, Daryl mourned in his own mind, _I fuck everything up. I'm so fuckin' sorry._

"M'sorry," Daryl mumbled again under his breath.

"S'fine, brother, but let's go—_now_!" Merle urged him.

When he finally nodded his understanding, Merle dragged Daryl out the door by his arm, nearly pulling it from its socket. Daryl kept his eyes shut as Merle led him through the building and out to the waiting cars. He tried not to register the sticky squelch of his boots as they trampled over concrete and blood. He tried not to think about the weighted impact when his foot accidentally made contact with a body strewn across the floor. He tried not to acknowledge the itchy sensation as Ryan's blood dried and caked over his cheek and forehead. The air smelled like copper and gunfire, and some guy in another room was screaming for help, but Daryl focused all his attention on the solid feel of Merle's fist around his forearm.

Merle dragged him out to safety, shoving him into the passenger seat of some truck and jumping behind the wheel himself, peeling out of there before the cops arrived.

They drove in silence for miles, until Merle finally cocked an eyebrow and asked, "You alright, baby brother?" in an uncharacteristic display of genuine care.

Daryl did not bite at his lip, fearful he'd taste blood that wasn't his own.

Eventually, Daryl found it in him to mutter, "I've had worse."


End file.
